Having unpacked his 'toys' from days back in the military and spread them over his bed, Corby looked at them, shifting his gaze from one to another, trying to figure out which one of them could help. It'd been a minute since the last he played with them, he realized; and he realized also how much he missed them. Should have never gotten himself booted from the military, then they wouldn't have had to part.
Monroe was so mad with him because of the whole ordeal. He couldn't even look the woman in the eye the day it happened. The worst day in his life, maybe. He fucked it up. Big time. He played it over and over in his head a million times now, over the past six months, again and again, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. There was nothing he could do about it now though, even if he'd found the answer. It was all in the past, all gone. Hard as he tried, he couldn't change anything.
Yet everything still seemed to remind him of it; he couldn't let go. All he wanted was to forget about it but it wasn't that simple. It was the first mission he ever failed, and it completely messed up his perfect track record. And it was bad, enough to screw up his whole career over it. A stupid mistake really. So much so that he was embarrassed for it. He was on Monroe's top list, once, the best of the best, part of her elite squadron. And she couldn't even look at him after it happened. She had to let him go on an OTH (Other Than Honorable) discharge.
He left her no other choice really, and she hated him for it. After all, off the record, she liked him the most in the entire squad. He hated to disappoint her too. Oh, how he wished he could have avoided it. He wished he could relive the whole day, and having thought about it long and hard, he'd come to the conclusion that there was only one thing he'd done wrong; out of all the events of the day, there was only one mistake that cost him his future. And it wasn't what they booted him for. It wasn't what he scolded himself for all these months either. But he'd come to that realization way too late, unfortunately. He wished he had that epiphany moment sooner. And while he couldn't go back and fix his mistake, he could make sure he wasn't going to repeat it.
One of the toys on his bed was a frequency reader, his good ole pal. Corby remembered the two of them having a lot of fun together. No more than a tiny box, an all-purpose frequency reader, you'd never guess from the looks of it what it was actually capable of. The sucker could read any frequency (including encrypted ones) in a ten-mile radius. It cracked them open just as easily as a can opener did the tin cans.
Corby turned it on. He wanted to know what was the police chatter out there at the moment, in the city. He worked his way through frequency tables, one by one. He'd known them by heart by now so often he'd listened in on them. The device got busy decrypting them. It was going to take some time. Corby left it to it.
While he waited, he chewed on a stale burger from last night. He hadn't had a bite since yesterday. The burger didn't taste good at all, but it'd do. It was a part of what was supposed to be his last-meal package. He was glad it didn't actually turn out to be his last meal. It was a crappy meal! Besides, he was happy to be alive. Right now, the last thing he wanted was to die. How things turned around, huh? He wasn't feeling sad or depressed anymore; he had a bucketful of energy. He was a guy on a mission now. His own mission. Not Monroe's. Not Father Carnellius's. Not anyone's. In his miserable dumb-ass life, he had a purpose now–he was going to find the boy, and he was going to protect him.
He put his earpiece in and listened. The magic box did its job and he had a decrypted signal now. It was just static at first but then he heard voices–various police chitchat started coming in. It was mostly the usual, robberies, vandalism, suicide-jumpers. Among those few, Corby handpicked a couple that quickly started to present a pattern. Several police units were being dispatched for a perpetrator chase downtown. Then they quickly called for backup. Three, six, then nine units were being dispatched all for the same chase. Corby stopped chewing, narrowing his eyes at the box, listening carefully. Something major was happening. Multiple inquiries. Multiple reports…
And then it was as if the floodgates opened–information on a redhead boy started coming in from multiple sources. He was disturbing the peace downtown. Corby smiled. Bingo!
It was him! The boy. Had to be. He was downtown then. And he was in trouble. Corby practically jumped up to his feet, scooped up his toys, and headed for the door.
It was his cue now.
When Corby descended to his parking lot level, his Buick was waiting for him there patiently. A true friend. It was a revamped 1950s Buick Roadmaster, and he petted it on its red roof when he approached it, as if it was alive, before hopping in. The engine purred in response when he started it, and Buick gradually came to life, lifting itself a foot above the ground and hovering there restlessly, ready for action.
Corby jiggled a pair of plush dice hanging on a silver stem of his back mirror, for good luck, as he always had before going anywhere, especially on a new mission. Used to hang in his spacefighter cockpit; now they hung here. When the OS loaded, an automated voice–among other alerts–chimed in, "Your vehicle's rental agreement expires in...One hour, one minute. Please, return your vehicle to the nearest Alamo station."
Corby waved it off. "Yes, yes. Just give me a minute, would you?"
The gate opened in front of him with a tired screech, spilling in daylight. Corby narrowed his eyes, looking wearily at the awakening city. Looked busy as ever today. Great! He had a feeling that soon it was going to get even busier. He flicked the controls on his little magic box, getting the read on the police frequencies again. Wherever they went, he was going to follow them.
He put the Buick into gear and it darted out of the building.